A Thread So Thin

by Marie Bostwick

  “Strictly speaking, I don’t. But I’m deeply interested in getting them. Now, if you’d just learn how—”

  I clunked him on the head with a wet glove. “Very funny. So when you laid out your grand plan for us exploring each other’s hobbies, what you really meant was me doing the things that interest you?”

  “Not entirely. I reckoned you’d want me to try my hand at quilting, and I was willing to give it a shot. But once you saw how hopeless I was, I figured we could leave off and turn our attention to more interesting interests.”

  “In other words, your interests.”

  “Just so.”

  I put my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my palm. Cindy was right. Charlie did have the gift of gab, or at least the gift of repartee. He always kept me smiling. “You’re a mess, you know that?”

  “Yes,” he said seriously and slurped his coffee. “You’re not the first to point that out. So what do you say? Shall we go back to my house—or yours, I’m not particular—and work on our massage technique? I don’t have any massage oil just now, but olive oil would serve, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, it would, if I wanted to smell like a Caesar salad and if I wanted to skip the ski date you promised me. Unfortunately for you, I don’t want to do either of those things. Man up, Charlie. We are going skiing. You’ll love it.”

  He groaned. “No, I won’t. I’m an Irishman. We’re more cerebral than physical, at least I am. The only sport I really enjoy is horse racing, and by that I mean betting on horses, not riding them. However,” he sighed, “a deal’s a deal. If you want me to ski, I’ll ski. Not happily, but I’ll do it.”

  “Good. We’ve got a beginner’s lesson scheduled for ten-thirty. That leaves us plenty of time to eat and get to the mountain. Do you want to drive or shall I?”

  “I will. I’m parked behind the Grill. Beginner’s lesson? I thought you said you’d skied before.”

  “I have. Often. Mother and I used to go skiing every winter. She was really good,” I said wistfully, remembering how trim and athletic she used to look in her tight black ski pants and bright blue parka, a white knitted headband holding back her thick mane of brown hair. In her day, my mother had been an expert skier and gave me my first lessons.

  I remember how, when I was little, her arms wrapped strong around mine and how my skis were sandwiched between hers as she helped me catch hold of the rope tow that pulled us to the top of the bunny hill. In my mind, I can see her gliding down that gentle slope, effortlessly carving a path of wide, arcing turns across the mountain and calling back encouragements to me as I tried, haltingly and with considerably more effort, to follow. When I was older, we used to race to the bottom of the intermediate hill. Sometimes she would win and sometimes I would, though now I suspect that when I won, it was because she’d let me.

  What a long time ago that was. How young, how strong, how agile she’d been back then.

  She still lived in De Pere, Wisconsin, in the little house I’d grown up in and that she’d refused to leave when my father was killed in a car accident eleven years ago. I talk to her every Sunday night. She’s as sharp and funny as ever, still my mother, but her voice is weaker now and sometimes sad. It seems she has less and less news to report every week, and when she does, it’s usually news of another friend who has fallen ill or passed on.

  Mother was one of the founding members of her church altar guild. They’d started with eight women, eight close friends who, like my mother, were experts with a needle and enjoyed serving the church by sewing new altar cloths, making needlepoint cushions for the kneelers, and keeping the church linens clean and in good repair. There are only two of those original eight left.

  “Evelyn? Hello, Evelyn?” Charlie waved a hand in front of my face. “Anybody in there?”

  “Oh, sorry, Charlie. I was just thinking about…nothing. Anyway,” I said, shaking myself out of my reverie, “it’s been a long time since I strapped on a pair of skis. It won’t hurt me to have a refresher. Trust me, Charlie. You’ll be fine. And I’ll be with you the whole time. I imagine we’ll both be on the bunny slopes for a while.”

  Cindy returned carrying my latte and a plate with two warm maple scones dripping with butter. “I heated them up for you. They’re good like that. Brought an extra one, just in case. If you’re going skiing, Charlie, you need to eat a good breakfast.”

  Charlie took a bite of the warm scone and moaned with pleasure. “Mmm,” he said with his mouth full. “This might just be worth the pain of the ankle I’m about to break. Thanks, Cindy.”

  “You’re welcome.” She wiped invisible crumbs off the table and went back into the kitchen.

  “So,” Charlie said to me as he broke off another piece of scone, “what have you been up to? Everything fine at the shop?”

  I nodded and took a sip of coffee. “Yes. Business has slowed, but that’s all right. We had such a good fall. And online sales are still very strong. Margot and Garrett think we ought to create a catalog.”

  “Oh? How is Garrett, anyway? I haven’t seen him around lately.”

  “He was in New York. He took Liza out for a very fancy night on the town on New Year’s Eve. Dinner and dancing at the Carlyle.”

  Charlie’s eyes sparked like two live wires. He leaned toward me, pushing his stomach against the hard table edge. “Really? Why didn’t you tell me before? Did they have the red snapper with the truffled sunchoke mousseline? Or the rack of lamb with the eggplant cannelloni?”

  People say that if you want to find success in life, you should follow your passions, do what you love. That’s why I opened up Cobbled Court Quilts, because quilting is my passion.

  For Charlie, it’s food—buying it, cooking it, plating it, selling it, and making sure that it is offered and enjoyed in pleasant, relaxed, and elegant surroundings that make the simple act of eating an experience to be savored, an event that underscores the goodness of life. As sole proprietor of the Grill on the Green, New Bern’s finest restaurant, Charlie has definitely found his niche and everyone in town has benefited. After all, there aren’t many towns this size that have a restaurant to rival the best eateries in Manhattan. Even if I wasn’t in love with Charlie, I’d love living just a short walk from a restaurant as good as the Grill on the Green.

  But that doesn’t mean I totally understand Charlie’s devotion to food, the way his face lights up when discussing anything to do with recipes or menus. But then, he doesn’t totally understand how I can get positively giddy over a new quilt pattern or why, though I already have more bolts of cloth on order than floor space to display them, I can never resist ordering just a few more. In our own weird way, I guess we’re birds of a feather.

  “Of course,” he continued excitedly, “the Dover sole braised in champagne is excellent too—their signature dish—but, for my money, I’ll take the snapper. Simply out of this world!” Charlie looked at me expectantly, waiting for a soup-to-nuts report on Garrett’s dinner.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, but he really didn’t say what they had.”

  Charlie reared back aghast, his face a mask of disbelief. “Seriously? New Year’s Eve at the Carlyle, and Garrett didn’t say anything about what they ate? There was probably a special offering for the occasion. Didn’t he bring home the menu?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Charlie sighed his disappointment. “Incredible.”

  “But that’s my point,” I said. “He barely said anything about the whole evening. That’s not like him at all. Do you think something could have gone wrong between him and Liza? I know they’re crazy about each other, but they’re still so young…”

  “Not so young. Garrett’s twenty-six.”

  “But Liza’s only twenty-two. And not an especially mature twenty-two. Don’t get me wrong. I love Liza. She’s like a daughter to me. But she still has a lot of growing up to do.”

  “Well, don’t we all. Anyway, I think growing up is highly overrated. I’ve been giving it some thought
lately and have decided against it.” Charlie winked, trying to jolly me out of my mood.

  “Quit worrying,” he said. “I’m sure Garrett is just fine. If he wasn’t, then he’d tell you, wouldn’t he? You and Garrett are so close. Probably he’s just tired after staying up half the night. Or maybe it’s just the post-holiday letdown.”

  “Maybe.”

  Charlie opened an extra packet of sugar and poured it into his coffee. He likes it sweet. “So, do you think you’re going to do it?”

  “Hmm? Do what?”

  “Start a catalog like Garrett and Margot suggested. It’s not a bad idea.”

  I picked up my scone, broke it into four roughly equal pieces, and laid them at the north, south, east, and western points of the plate, making sure there was an equal expanse of space between each piece. It’s an old habit. When I’m thinking, arranging objects into symmetrical patterns helps me focus. Even when I’m not quilting, I’m still quilting.

  “Evelyn?” Charlie ducked his head down so his face intersected my field of vision. “The catalog?”

  I jumped, a little startled to see his eyes so close to mine. “What?”

  “I see Garrett isn’t the only one who’s distracted.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “What’s the matter? When you came in here you were all smiles, couldn’t wait to hit the slopes. Now you’re a million miles away. Did I say something to upset you? I was just teasing before. I’m happy to go skiing with you. I’m happy to go anywhere with you. If you wanted, I’d follow you to Siberia and back. You know that.”

  I lifted my hand from the table and Charlie’s along with it and planted a kiss on one of his big knuckles. “I know. It’s not that. I was just thinking about my mom, that’s all.”

  “Virginia? What’s wrong with her?”

  Charlie has never met my mother, but they’ve spoken on the telephone. He likes her, and the feeling is mutual. Charlie knows how to make Mom laugh, and she thinks his Irish accent is adorable. Plus, he sent her a batch of homemade almond brittle for Christmas. That clinched the deal. She’s been a Charlie fan ever since.

  “You talked to her yesterday, didn’t you?” Charlie’s forehead creased with concern. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. It’s just that I was sitting here thinking about how we used to go skiing together. It’s sad to think that she can’t do things like that anymore, you know? I talk to her every week and she’s always so glad to hear from me, but she sounds a little down.” I sighed. “I always thought I wanted to live to be an old, old woman, but now I’m not so sure. It must be awful to see the people you care about die—first Dad, and now her friends. It must feel so lonely.”

  “True, but she’s not alone. She’s got family. You and Garrett. And she has a sister, too, doesn’t she?”

  I nodded. “Aunt Sylvia, yes, but she moved to California seven years ago. The winters got to be too much for her. They talk on the phone pretty often, but it’s not the same, I’m sure.”

  “No. I’m sure,” he agreed.

  “I just hate to think of Mom being all alone with no one to talk to. When I moved to New Bern, I suggested she think about moving out here, but she wouldn’t even consider it. Said she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, thank you very much, and that she had no intention of moving halfway across the country at her age.” I smiled to myself. She might be slowing down a bit, but Mom was just as opinionated as ever.

  “How old is Virginia?”

  “She just turned eighty.”

  “Eighty.” Charlie clicked his tongue, impressed by the figure. “She sounds great for eighty. Say,” he said, peering longingly at the last two pieces of scone I’d left on my plate, “are you going to finish that?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen your mom? More than a year?”

  I nodded. The years since my divorce have been so crazy. What with opening a new business and then dealing with breast cancer and my subsequent mastectomies, I’d barely had a chance to take a weekend at the beach, let alone get to Wisconsin. Mom never complained, but it had been far too long since I’d gone home.

  “Why don’t you hop on a plane and go out there?” Charlie said. “Business is slow right now. Margot and Garrett can keep an eye on the shop.”

  He had a point. This was the perfect time of year to go visiting. Of course, I’d have to call Mom and make sure I wasn’t interrupting her plans, but somehow I doubted she’d have much on her calendar. It would be nice to spend some time with her, and it would give me a chance to see how she was getting along.

  “You know,” I said, brightening, “that’s a good idea. I’ll get on the computer later and see about booking a flight.”

  “Good! You need a break and Virginia will be glad to see you, I’m sure. And it’ll be fun for you to visit your old hometown. Just promise me not to go falling in love with any of your old high school flames while you’re out there.”

  “Not a chance of that happening.” I laughed. “I went to my twentieth high school reunion and trust me, Charlie, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re more and less of a man than any of those guys.”

  “More and less?” He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’ve got more hair and less beer belly than any of the boys I went to high school with. And besides,” I said as I crumpled up my paper napkin and laid it on my now empty plate, “there’s not a one of them who knows how to make duck confit or macadamia butterscotch cookies like you do.”

  Charlie narrowed his eyes and nodded. “Oh, so that’s how it is with you. You’re just like all the others. You only love me for my cooking.”

  “Oh, no, Charlie Donnelly. That’s not so. You’re a fabulous chef, it’s true. But that is only one of the many things I love about you. Though it’s probably the lowest on a long list of very fine qualities you possess. There’s not a man I know who can hold a candle to you.”

  I meant it too. I’ve never met a man like Charlie.

  Upon first acquaintance, people tend to think that Charlie is tough, a grump even. It’s an image he likes to cultivate, but he’s never able to pull it off for long. Anyone who spends more than a day in his presence quickly comes to realize that underneath his prickly exterior, Charlie Donnelly has a heart as soft as a bar of chocolate left in the sun, and just as sweet. I love Charlie. How could I not? And yet, though he has asked me again and again, I’m not ready to marry him.

  When I was a little girl, my father used to love Frank Sinatra. Dad was a history professor at the college in our town. Sometimes, after he came home for the day, he’d put Sinatra’s “Love and Marriage” on the stereo as loud as it would go and invade Mom’s kitchen, demanding she dance with him. She always protested that she was too busy for his nonsense but in the end, she always gave in, dancing around the kitchen with Dad while the rice boiled over or the pork chops burned. A lot of perfectly good meals got ruined as a result of Dad’s antics, but I didn’t mind. It was nice to see them whirling around the linoleum floor, locked in an embrace. It gave me a sense of security and a belief that love and marriage did indeed go together, that if you had the first, the second would inevitably follow, and love was a bond that cemented people together for life.

  I believed that for a long time. I believed it when I fell in love and married Rob Dixon, and I continued to believe it through the ups and downs of twenty-four years of marriage. I believed it until the day my divorce papers were finalized.

  I don’t believe it anymore. I wish I still could.

  The last few years have been simultaneously wonderful and terrible for me.

  On the terrible side, I lost my husband, my home, and my health. On the wonderful side, I regained my health and found a new home and new friendships, the kind of friendships I never would have believed existed before I came to New Bern. I’ve recaptured the dreams of my youth, opening a successful business that brings me incredible satisfaction. And, m
ost astounding of all, I’ve found love again.

  I love Charlie, I do. But I’m not ready to marry him.

  Life can be tough, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Some of them are healed and some of them, like the scars of betrayal from my failed marriage, are still raw. I told Charlie that from the very first and he said he understood, that he was willing to wait as long as he had to. But after all this time, his patience is beginning to wear thin.

  Charlie started to speak, but I interrupted him.

  “And don’t go asking me to name all those fine qualities you possess, Charlie. I won’t do it,” I said breezily, deliberately trying to distract him. “Because, as we both know, humility is not on the list. I’m not going to say anything that will make that ego of yours any more bloated than it already is.” I forced a grin.

  Charlie’s eyes searched my face for a moment, wondering if he should call my bluff and demand an answer to the unasked question I was so bent on ignoring. The smile faded from my face.

  Don’t do it. Please, Charlie. Don’t ask me. Not today.

  He rubbed his fingers across the ridge of his jaw, the way he does when he’s decided to change the subject, and put his fork down next to his plate.

  “All right, then,” he said. “If you won’t tell me, then you won’t. But you’d think that, every now and again, you might throw a fellow a bone. Just to keep his spirits up.”

  “Well, if you insist,” I said with a smile, relieved to be treading on less serious ground. “In addition to the other qualities I mentioned…”

  He pushed back his chair and got up from the table. I did the same. “You mean my duck confit, the absence of bald spots on my handsome head, and my trim physique?” He sucked in his stomach.

  “Yes. In addition to that, you’re an adventurous soul. Always ready to try new things. Sports in particular.”

  “Ha!” He laughed loudly and genuinely, and the tension between us dissipated, at least for the moment.

  “Don’t you try that on with me, Evelyn. I know your game. Flattery will get you nowhere. I said I’ll go skiing with you, but don’t expect me to enjoy it, all right?”